


Operator's Manual

by hellkitty



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Crack, F/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:24:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4165755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://madmaxkink.dreamwidth.org/450.html?thread=640706#cmt640706"> This prompt, </a> pretty much what's on the tin. </p>
<p>Got stood up for a lunch with someone I greatly admire(d?), so instead of moping, (because never give people who waste no energy on you your energy) I figured I'd try to write something, which may explain middling quality. I'm still a loser, but at least I'm a *productive* loser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Operator's Manual

It had been Ace’s idea, really, but she could tell he was already regretting it.  Problem with a half life War Boy--thinking things through wasn’t really a strong suit.  But Ace never stepped back from his word, so even though he set his mouth, sullenly, she knew he wasn’t going to change his mind.

"You don’t have to be here,” she offered.

“Sure I do!” He twisted in the seat, outraged. “Someone’s gotta make sure he does it right.”

Furiosa was going to suggest that she might be qualified to judge that, too, but she knew better. If he insisted, she’d let him stay.  Besides, she didn’t really want to let him too far out of her sight.  They'd make it back to the Citadel tomorrow, and then the Mechanic could look him over.  Ace said all he needed was some blood, and he'd be fine. He wasn’t a great liar, so she could just hope he was right.

"Well, you can't veto the whole crew, Ace. Kind of defeats the purpose."  She'd been listing them, as they came to mind, and he'd shot down every single one, with some objection or another, and some of the details, well...how exactly did he know some of these things?  

He grunted, sourly, staring out the Rig's windscreen.

"I am thinking Morsov, though," she said.  

"The pup."

She could hear another veto bubble up, and be wrestled to silence.  He was trying, at least.  "What's wrong with Morsov?"

“Think he needs a wrench up the side of his head more’n this,” Ace grumbled. Or a wrench somewhere else, she figured, but he was trying to mind his tongue in front of the Imperator.

“Someone sounds jealous,” Furiosa said.  

“Jealous? Me? Of him? In his fucking dreams.” Not exactly convincing, she thought.  “Just thinkin’ you could do better, is all.”

“I could do better, but he’s not feeling well right now.” She kept her eyes firmly on the hardpack sand in front of them. Give him a little boost, she thought. He could use it.

Besides, it’s not like it wasn’t true.  “You know. We don’t actually have to.”

“Slash that,” Ace said. “It’s happening.  End of story.” He shrugged out of the thin blanket she’d wrapped over him when the chills had gotten too bad.

“Where the hell you think you’re going?”

Ace levered himself out, perching for a moment in the passenger side window. “Going to give Morsov the good news.”

“Are you sure--” But he was already gone, which already answered her question. It was probably not a good idea.  Mothers only knew what he’d tell Morsov.  

***

“All right,” Furiosa said, shifting on the back seat of the rig’s cab. “What did you tell him?” Because she heard the surreptitious shifting of War Boys around the caravan, changing guard shift. And no sign of Morsov.

“He’ll be here,” Ace muttered, from the passenger seat. “If he knows what’s good for him.”

“So you didn’t tell him--?”

“Told him to show up at the cab.”

“Ace.” She sighed. “He probably thinks you ordered him here so you could stab him.”

“Yeah, maybe not a bad thing for him to keep in mind.”

“If you’re going to be like this all ni--?”

Ace sat up, head cocked. “Too late. He’s here.” He snorted. “Late, of course.” As if he’d expected nothing less.

It was Morsov, stepping up onto the runner, peering inside the darkened cab, wary.

“Get in here, pup,” Ace snapped. “No sense, hanging off the sides.”

Morsov hesitated, but heaved himself up, slipping his legs inside, resting tensely on the driver’s seat.

“The door does work,” Furiosa observed, wryly, flicking on the interior cabin light.  It was as if War Boys were allergic to actually opening doors.  

And it was worth it for the way he jumped back, banging his rib against the Rig’s big, heavy steering wheel.  “Imperator!”

“Ace. You really didn’t tell him anything, did you?”

He sounded smug. “First rule of combat: element of surprise.”

“This is combat?” Because that’s not what she’d thought they were talking about.  

Morsov shifted on the driver’s seat, rubbing his bruised rib. “What is this?”

Both of them swiveled to look at Morsov.  

“Seriously. He didn’t tell you.”

“All he told me to do was show up! And be ready.”

Ready. Really. Ace gave a shrug like ‘what more do you want from me?’.  “Are you going to tell him now, or should I?”

“I will,” he said, elbowing up. “Gotta speak in a way pups understand.”

“Yeah?” Morsov’s eyes kept bouncing between the two of them, confused. “I can understand...stuff.”  

“Right.” Ace pointed over his shoulder. “You’re gonna take care of th’Imperator tonight.”  

Oh, that was absolutely aqua cola clear.

“Take care of?”

“Sex,” Furiosa said. “He means sex.” She shot him a look, and Ace shrugged back.  

“Sex. With you.  Me.”  

“Yeah, really show off that ‘understanding stuff’ skill you’ve got there, pup.”

“You don’t….honestly think you’re helping, Ace, do you?” She just had to ask.  

“Not my fault he’s slow.”

“Yeah, well...you’re _old_!” Morsov retorted.  

“Ace.” Furiosa reached between the two of them with her metal hand. Just in time, it seemed, as Ace was halfway lunging at the War Boy. “You’re not old. And you’re not slow.” There.  Behave, everyone. “Morsov. Maybe you should come back here.” Probably be safer for everyone, if nothing else.  

He shot a dark look at Ace, before clambering over the driver’s seat, perching on the very edge of the bench seat behind.  He cycled a deep breath of air, in and out, before leaning forward, aiming for a kiss.

Over his shoulder, Furiosa saw Ace rolling his eyes, and just to spite him, because he did, after all, deserve it, she folded one arm around Morsov’s shoulders, pulling him in. And it, well, it wasn’t much of a kiss, amateurish and clumsy, but it had its charms, she supposed, especially the way Morsov gave a little growl in the back of his throat, pressing closer, one hand squeezing at her breast.

“Ow!” Morsov’s back snapped up, hand scrubbing the back of his head.

“Ace,” Furiosa said, warningly.

“What?”

“What’d you hit him with?”

He gave a half-shouldered shrug. Damn, it was like he had a whole vocabulary of shrugs going on here. “Bootlace.” He held up one of his laces, the ends knotted and metal dagged.

“Why’d you hit me for?” Morsov snarled, under his arm.  

“Cause you were being an idiot. You don’t just go and grab those things. Kind of take some, you know, special handling.” He had a point, she had to admit.  

“Yeah?” Morsov looked down at the bands of fabric over her breasts, as though there might be a bomb under there.  

“Imperator.” Ace made a little wave with his hand. “Gonna take him forever if he has to figure out how to get those off.” He had another point, there, she thought, and she wasn’t going to admit he was right, per se, but she did elbow up, moving to peel herself out of her clothes, unbuckling the bands of leather, then slowly unwinding the fabric.  Morsov sat back, squatting on the floor of the cab, his eyes wide, fascinated, as her breasts fell free, soft, and fluid, and unlike anything a War Boy was used to.  

“Right.  Rule one.  No touchin’ the Imperator without permission.”  

“What?”

“Gotta ask.”

Wait, Furiosa thought, when did that become a rule? Because if it was one, it wasn’t one Ace followed himself. But it was...kind of hot, honestly, the way Morsov turned back to her, eyes shy, hands hovering over her.  “C-can I?”

She saw the bootlace this time, snapping over Morsov’s shoulder.

“Ace.” She was getting tired of saying his name.  

“What? Pup should count himself lucky. Next time it’ll be the boot.” He frowned. “Don’t say ‘can’.  'May I'.”

Oh this was almost ridiculous.  But also definitely hot, especially the way Ace’s eyes flicked over her bare breasts, hot and possessive.

“May I? Please?” 

“Yes. You may. Permission granted.” She glowered at Ace over his shoulder, just to make sure he understood.  Her permission. Not his.

Oh, he understood. He was just going to be a jerk about it. “Don’t just go grabbing like you’re trying to loosen a lugnut.”  All right, she couldn’t deny that that was sound advice. Morsov’s hand, covering her breast, softened, and he started stroking over the skin, almost gingerly.  

“She likes it when you kiss the underside,” Ace said, grudgingly.  

Morsov looked up at her, then down, his eyes traveling slowly over her chest, the wings of her clavicles, the swell of the breasts and the valley between.  He gave a swallow, lowering down, and she felt the warm press of his lips on her breastbone, the eddy of air of his breath skimming up her breasts, and she could feel the taut tingle of her nipples hardening, as the mouth traced an arc down, nuzzling along the curve of her breast. She purred, and the fact that Ace was watching them both, frustrated and wrestling his own jealousy, only made it better, and she let her own hand fall to Morsov’s shoulder, tracing the lines of muscle, the plates of his shoulderblades.  

“May I?” Morsov’s voice was a whisper, the words hot air teasing over one of her nipples, asking permission again. She wanted to tell him he didn’t have to ask permission for everything but...well, with the way he looked, kneeling between her legs, eyes glowing with desire, she could tell him later.  She nodded instead, and then gasped as his mouth covered the nipple, heat and wetness closing over her and she felt his tongue exploring the nipple--the hard node of flesh, the smoother, almost satin skin of the aureole.  She squirmed on the vinyl seat, thighs squeezing at his ribs possessively.

Ace leaned over, and hooked one of her knees up, lifting her foot up onto his lap, and she felt his fingers working at the lacing of her boot, and then loosening it, peeling it off her foot.  She was going to admonish him, because it was hard enough to concentrate with Morsov’s mouth on her, now experimentally sucking her nipple, and having Ace’s fever-warm hand caressing her foot….  And Ace knew what he was doing, probably, trying to claim some attention for himself.  But she couldn’t quite bring herself to complain. Better this, after all, than whipping Morsov with a bootlace again.  

She extended her other foot, over Morsov’s shoulder. And Ace could always take a hint, working her other boot off.  “Could get used to this,” she murmured. She doubted she’d get the chance, but she could enjoy it while she could.  Morsov gave a sound, like assent, against her skin, sliding his hands up her sides. He slithered up her, seeking her mouth in a slightly better kiss, pressing her breasts under his chest, his hips grinding between her thighs.  She could feel heat and hardness against her, poking blindly on her belly, his body arching against her, with a helpless need.  

“Helps to get her pants off,” Ace observed, wryly.  She’d almost forgotten he was there. Almost, because he could give a good foot massage.  She’d have to remember that.

“I know that,” Morsov said, eyebrows knitting. “Not a complete pup.”

“Just mostly,” Ace said.  

Oh Mothers. Boys, she thought, before squirming up, reclaiming her feet--with some regret--back from Ace, kneeling on the bench to strip off her pants, kicking them off to one side.  There was a reason the Vuvalini had the women in charge. Probably many reasons. But she figured this was probably one. “Pants: taken care of,” she announced.  

“You’re skippin’ over vital information,” Ace frowned.  There was apparently the way it was supposed to be done, and she was gleefully going the other direction.

“Just moving things along,” she said, hooking her heel around Morsov’s shoulder.  Ace shifted, rising onto his knees.  

“Better let me take over, Boss. Things get complicated from here.”

“I know,” Morsov groused. “Gotta ask permission. I got it.”  

“No, not that.” Ace reached over, and she felt his hot hand on her, pushing her thighs apart, then spreading open the lips. “There,” he said, flicking at the top, the hood of her clit, with one finger. “That’s your objective.”

“Objective.” Really, Ace?  

“What?”

“Nothing. I didn’t realize I was a battle plan, that’s all.”

"Well, what do you call it, then?"

She put her hands up. "Objective's fine. It works." Sure, why not.  "Carry on." 

“Yeah, well, just tryin’ to speak a language he understands.” He tapped it again. “Objective. Real sensitive.” She couldn’t argue with that, or the way his finger tweaked the hood of it, just enough to wake up the nerves underneath.  “See?” Ace said, pointing at the way her breath caught, the way her hands gripped the edge of the seat.  

“Yeah.”  This time Morsov’s voice seemed awed, fascinated, as if all the animus had drained out of it.

“All right,” Ace said, sitting back. “Let’s see what you got.”

“Me? Now?” Morsov suddenly looked like he wouldn’t have minded a bit more guidance, for a change.  “Wi-with my hands? or--?”

Were men always this helpless? Furiosa didn’t remember Ace being clueless. Though, he had gotten better, she thought. Wait. Had he been studying?  Her?  She didn’t know how she felt about that.  She reached down, taking one of his hands. “Like this,” she said, spreading her thighs, dipping his fingers against her, slicking them with her fluid before sliding them up the channel of her folds.  

“Oh,” Morsov’s voice caught a tremor that ran through his body. “Like this?”  

“Yeah, that’s good,” Furiosa murmured, softening her shoulders back against the seat.  It was...different. She was so used to Ace’s touch, competent, capable, and the nervous awkwardness had its own kind of thrill. She rolled her hips into his touch with a sigh, feeling that familiar warm heat in her loins.  

Morsov’s breathing grew heavy, and he stopped, for a minute, shifting his hips uncomfortably.  

Before Furiosa could say anything, Ace was on it. “Who said you could stop?!”  

“I...just,”  Morsov’s hands fumbled on his trousers. “When can I--?”

“Later. Maybe,” Ace snapped.  “This isn’t about you.”  

Morsov whimpered, chastened, one hand returning to her body, crawling its way up her thigh, the other rubbing awkwardly over the bulge in his crotch. Well, no denying he wanted her, at least, she thought, and the pause was just enough to let the edge of desire ebb back, like upshifting--that little moment in neutral before hitting the gas.  

At least she hoped that’s what would happen. Figuratively speaking.

“Beautiful,” Morsov whispered, his eyes doing a really wonderful circuit of her body, the lines of her thighs, the rise of her ribcage. He was looking with the appreciative eye of a mechanic, seeing an engine with clean, straight lines.  

“Not bad yourself,” she said, winking back.  And trying to ignore the hurt noise from Ace, sitting in the front seat. Oh, hush, Ace, she thought. Men: rock hard skin, paper thin egos.  He might not be pretty, but she wouldn't trade him for anyone.  

Ace twisted around, bracing one arm on the other seat.  “Here. Lemme show you something.”  His left hand reached over, finding Morsov’s hand, then moving just a bit above it, just behind the fleshy hood of her clit.  Erm. Objective.  Really, she was going to have fun with that one, later.  “There.”  

“There?”

“Just keep up what you’re doing. You’ll see.”  

She didn’t feel anything, at first, just a little point of pressure, but Morsov knew better than to argue, and he kept his gentle, tentative rhythm of his fingers against her.  Then, in a stroke of inspiration, Morsov bent down, covering her with his mouth, and she felt his tongue like a probing bit of heat, tasting her, and moaning against her. She didn’t remember if he’d asked for permission, and didn’t really care.  

And then. Oh. Furiosa blinked, one hand curled around Morsov’s head,  clamping her other hand over Ace’s wrist, digging her fingers into the ropy muscles of his forearm, because, what the fuck was this and how did he learn how to do that--that tiny little shift of his thumb, rocking side to side and it felt like cresting the top of a hill, hitting the clutch and letting gravity grab hold, that swooping, pulling, weightless energy that swept over her, arching her spine as she came, faster than she’d expected.  Her eyes caught Ace’s, her breath panting from her, and he met her gaze with a triumphant grin, before he lifted his hand, gingerly, from her engorged flesh.  

“Now, you can,”  Ace said to Morsov,  shifting to settle down, laying across the two front seats, his spine bridging between them, folding his hands on his chest.  

“Now? But she--”

“Listen, pup. You don’t warm up an engine and then shut it off.” A soft grunt, and he shifted his shoulders again. “Don’t make me get my boot, War Boy.”

Morsov apparently didn’t need much more goading, his hands running over her thighs, excited. Not quite owning, but claiming, as he rose up on his knees, and she could see the reddened length of his cock, against his white belly, eager and wanting.  

“I can be careful,” he whispered, guiding it with his hand down to her opening.

Furiosa smirked, hooking her heels around his hips. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

***

“You awake, Ace?”

She saw his body jerk, hands jumping off his chest. “‘Course I am.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m a damn great liar,” Ace grumbled. “You’re just better at callin’ me out about it.” He groaned, pushing up to sit, turning to look at her. “Awake now, at any rate.”

“I’ve got some room back here,” Furiosa lay, stretched along the length of the bench seat.  She’d taken off her arm, resting on her other hip.  “If you’re interested.”  

He snorted at the ‘if’, levering himself to his feet. “What happened to your pup?”

She smirked, pointing down--Morsov lay crumpled on the floor of the cab, dead asleep, head cradled against his arm, belly up and vulnerable looking, his cock flaccid and spent and sticky looking across his thigh.

“Hfff.” Ace said, stepping over him. “Looks like you wore him out.”  

“He was fun,” Furiosa agreed. “But he wasn’t you.” Because it had taken a lot out of him to agree to this--he was about as good at hiding his emotions as he was at lying.

“Damn straight,” Ace muttered, settling in behind her, against the seat’s back, and she felt the fading clamminess of fever in the arms he pulled around her--one under her cheek, resting across the top of her shoulders, the other wrapping over her ribs, so he could just feel the soft moons of her breasts against his forearm, her muscled shoulders against his chest. He gave a long, sighing breath, feeling her heat begin to seep through the heavy canvas and leather of his trousers.  

“Be back at the Citadel tomorrow, and get you fixed up,” she said, nuzzling against his arm, wriggling back against him. They fit together somehow, her curves matching against the angles of his body.  

“Mmm,” he mumbled something, idly, against the soft fringe of her hair.  That was tomorrow, and this was now, and right now, feeling her warm, almost velvety skin against his chest, the light flutter of her breath on his wrist, and the way she leaned into him, open, and trusting, and his...tomorrow didn’t matter. He knew that even if he didn’t make it till tomorrow, he had more, right now, than many War Boys had--they clutched their dreams of Valhalla, turning death into glory and honor, skipping over life that hadn’t exactly opened its hands to them. And they could have their dreams, their chrome, their speed.

He’d take this instead, any day. 


End file.
